The Red in the Rover
by Fresh Horses
Summary: When a murder needs both the C.B.I. and the Jeffersonian gang to solve it, you know it's a bad one. Expect fluff, multiple character POV's and wildly inaccurate guessing as science meets showmanship. Shipper-centric; minimal angst. Set approx season 2/3 of both 'verses. Warning: could be terrible.


**Title: The Red in the Rover  
**

**Rating: PG-13  
**

**Pairings: Jane/Lisbon, Angela/Jack, Booth/Brennan  
**

**A/N: My first attempt at a crossover, so please don't hurt me. Set around Season 2/3 of both shows. All mistakes are my own. Enjoy!**

* * *

Angela sat, perched awkwardly on one of the stools by the counter, twisting a ring around her finger; thinking.

_Mrs. Hodgins._

_Mrs. Jack Hodgins._

Sign, sealed, and (she stared down at the ring, unseeing) delivered.

She would be lying if she said the fact didn't make her feel trapped. It was a reflex thing - born of too many years running - running from old friends and new lovers, from city to city, from a past unwanted to one she feared less. So, yes, she felt it again – it's not as if she could help it. Years spent alone will do that to a person.

Shaking her head, she made an effort to smile.

Never mind the jitters.

_I'm happy._

Lost in her own thoughts, Angela barely registered the tinny strains of the diner bell, heralding the arrival of yet another body to be mashed into the (already packed) diner.

She sighed. So much was chang-

"Hello. I'm Patrick."

Angela jumped at the sound of the voice, keeping her seat with difficulty. Shifting to her right, she came face to face with one of the most attractive faces she had ever seen.

And she was married to Jack, for crying out loud.

Sandy curls, baby-blue eyes, a becoming grin.

"Angela Montenegro", she replied, somewhat breathlessly - then got herself under control. She was just surprised, that was all...

A quick clasp of hands and Patrick settled himself on the stool next to her.

"Montenegro, hmm?"

His quick blue eyes met hers for a moment before skittering away across the diner. "Artist? Free spirit?"

Angela started.

"Perhaps an embarrassing name originally, then? Courtesy of a parent?"

"Ah..." his eyes flickered back to hers, briefly, then away again, "...a father. I know what that's like, believe me. But no resentment?" Another glance seemed to confirm it. "Good, good." Pausing mid-sentence, Patrick held up one hand almost lazily, grabbing the attention of the stressed-looking waitress across the room.

"Ma'am. Tea for one, please. And some strawberry tart to go." He slid a bill onto the glass, then turned to face Angela again, fully, for the first time since they'd met.

She, unable to find the words to even begin to ask who this stranger was, or why he seemed to know so much about her, opened her mouth to speak-

"I wouldn't worry," he said, as though reading her thoughts. Then: "I have a strange name too." He paused, almost, it seemed to her, for theatrical effect. "It's Jane. Like the girl."

She stared at him, nonplussed.

A shadow of passed over his face, and his face crinkled into something like frustration. "But that's not the point. The point is...can you help me?"

Angela nodded warily, still not trusting her voice yet.

"I'm looking for a woman, about..." his suit rustled as he gestured "this high? She has dark brown hair, green eyes..." he paused again, sighing with satisfaction as tea and tart were placed in front of him by the now-smiling waitress, "well; they're more of an emerald really..."

He looked away distractedly, and Angela finally got a grip on her senses. This man was either a maniac (probable), genuinely lost (maybe), or trying to hit on her (which seemed increasingly unlikely).

In the interval, Patrick had levered himself off the stool, poking his head above those of the other diners, a forlorn expression clouding his carefree face.

Ok. She definitely had to find out what was going on.

As though sensing her curiosity, Patrick dragged himself away from his search and continued, "um, yes – she's wearing brown today, pants suit, cross, badge, gun...and", he finished up with a smile, poking the pastry with a finger, "she likes strawberries. A lot."

The woman was important to him, then. That much was easy to see. His face changed when he talked about her, a mix of affection, wistfulness, and...as Patrick took a sip of his tea, Angela blinked in surprise. She couldn't tell what else. She, who prided herself on reading people, could not tell what else he was feeling.

"Oh. And her name is Teresa Lisbon."

But, come on. Who describes a colleague's eyes as _emerald_?

"I'm sorry," she said, pleased to find her voice had returned to normal, "I haven't seen her." A childlike expression of severe disappointment. "Is she F.B.I.?"

"No," he replied, brow twisting as he started to explain, "she's –

"_Lisbon!_"

Angela nearly fell off the stool for the second time that day.

Patrick didn't seem to care. Following his gaze (and his grinning face) towards the door, she caught a glimpse of the woman that had caused his shout: pretty, harassed and clearly law enforcement (she carried herself the same way as Booth, Angela thought as she watched her scan the crowd), Teresa pushed her way through the press at the sound of his voice.

Her expression, after hearing his call, though, was not what Angela expected – a shared smile, a softening look, anything – in fact, it presented as more of a pained grimace.

Completely lost, Angela darted a surreptitious look at Patrick, whose grin, if anything, was getting bigger by the second.

In fact, she could have sworn she heard him hum a little as their eyes met – a little buzz of contentment, almost a purr – before, Teresa, finally reaching the bar, rounded on him in an instant.

_This should be interesting_, she thought.

"Dammit, Jane!"

_Wow_. Her voice was high.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

He took another sip of tea, smiling a little at her over the rim. "Why, we were waiting for you, my dear Lisbon."

_My dear_?

He frowned. "Terrible tea. Almost as bad as Rigsby's."

She ignored him, lost in the tirade, her voice going higher and higher as his grin got wider and wider.

"Really, Jane? _Really?_" Her voice took on a Brennan-disturbed-while-working level of dangerous. "All I asked for was _five minutes_. _Five minutes_ while I talked to my guy at the F.B.I. _Five minutes_ while I tried to get the info on this "Dr. Brennan" before we-"

Angela looked at her in shock, joining the many other amused glances and stares the pair was getting from the diner regulars.

"Hightower is going to love this – jeez, Jane, all I ask – _what are you doing_?"

Angela looked at Patrick, who was pointing at her.

"She knows Dr. Brennan."

Both women looked at him, speechless. Teresa recovered first.

Turning to her, she offered Angela an apology, then a handshake.

"I'm Teresa Lisbon, C.B.I. This," she jerked a thumb at Jane, who appeared to have had lost all interest in the conversation and was back to watching the diners, "is Patrick Jane. He's a consultant with my unit. We're here because we're working a double homicide; one new, one...well, I guess you could call it old." She smiled a little wryly, and Angela found herself liking the other woman (she was a lot like Booth). "Old, as in _skeleton-old_. It was found in the trunk of the car; same car that the other victim was shot in."

Angela was beginning to feel that familiar crime-scene sickness kicking in. Lisbon, seeing her expression, cut down the cop talk. "Anyway, we're clueless. We don't have the facilities in Sac-"

Actually, Lisbon", chimed in Jane, frowning, eyes still on the crowd, "I believe I already told you how the first victim died – likely a combination of motor-cross and climbing injuries. Adrenaline junkie. Too much money, too much time. Sad, really..."

"In any case," rejoined Teresa, ignoring Jane as he got up from the seat and moved further into the crowd, "we could really use Dr. Brennan's help. Do you know where we could find her?"

Angela nodded slowly. "Yeah...I mean, she's my best friend. We work at the Jeffersonian together. I can take you there; it's only a ten minute walk." "But...", she was surprised at how rattled she sounded, "how did he know? Is Patrick..." she coloured a little, but pressed on, "is he psychic?"

"Jane?" she replied, a tinge of amusement in her voice.

They both jumped as he re-appeared beside Teresa. His tone was deadly serious as he pocketed something, "there is no such thing as psychics."

Angela leaned forward to argue, but was cut off by Teresa's no-nonsense "don't bother. Start an argument and we could be here all day." Angela choked down her words, frowning.

Meanwhile, Teresa, flipping open her cell, looked at the crowds and came to a decision.

"I'll call the team when I get outside. Jane, bring the car around. Within the speed limit, do you hear me?" He stared at her, eye wide and guileless. She sensed this wasn't the first time they had played this game. (She also thought that maybe, just maybe, the young agent was enjoying it a little.)

"We don't need any more trouble while we're here."

"Yes, Boss."

"_Jane_..."

"Scouts' honour."

Rolling her eyes, she turned to Angela. "Thank you for all your help, uh..."

"Angela", supplied Patrick, before she had a chance.

Teresa sighed.

"Thank you, Angela. We should be back in about ten minutes. Is that ok?"

"S-Sure", she stammered, distracted by the way Patrick was lifting Teresa's hand to check the time on her wrist.

"I can make it five."

"No, Jane!"

"Fine. Want some strawberries?"

She shot him an unreadable glance, and for the first Angela saw her look a bit flustered. _What was that about?_

"Not now," she said, her voice quieter, "no time. Let's go, Jane."

"Meh," he replied, then pocketed the tart anyway.

Nodding once at Angela, Teresa was off, pushing her way through the crowd.

"Your pocket," said Patrick, and hurried after her.

Angela watched them both leave, wondering after everything that had happened in her life up to this point, why she still bothered being surprised that it was still getting weirder.

(I mean, it didn't take a shrink to work out that this was another case of Booth and Bren. It was obvious: the way Patrick had tried to keep Teresa's attention all throughout the conversation, the all-too-familiar bickering, even their body language - his hand placed possessively near the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd, her head tilted towards him, laughing – the whole thing screamed of just another oblivious couple.)

After they had left, Angela glanced down at her jacket pocket. A Jeffersonian ID, complete with work area and entry pass hung there, for all the world to see. She laughed, hoping against hope that they needed to stick around.

This could be _very_ _interesting_.

* * *

**I have no idea where this is going, but I had fun writing it. Let me know if you enjoyed it/if you didn't! Thanks.**


End file.
